


you’ve been a long time coming

by lesprita



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky's in love so deep, Look Sam's got beautiful wings ok?, Love, M/M, Male Character of Color, Wings AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:12:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1608029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesprita/pseuds/lesprita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He already fell once; he’d rather not have the false hope that he ever stood a chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you’ve been a long time coming

Whenever Sam is flying, his dark wings making a sharp contrast against the bright sky, Bucky always takes a moment to watch no matter where he is. His wings are beautiful; a deep bistre with ivory along the tips of the feathers, layered with softer shades of russet. Each time Sam navigates the sky, each time his wings take powerful, rhythmic strokes to keep himself in the air, there’s the resemblance of a hawk, an actual bird of prey. Strong where it counts, but graceful when he needs to be. Sam makes it look easy, like anyone can sprout wings and fly like they were born for it.

But he’s reminded when he’s with Sam feet on the ground that no, not everyone is made for it and no matter how much he imagines, Bucky will never join him in the open air. 

And he’s content with that.

Besides, it’s not just his wings that makes Bucky’s heart determined to beat out of his body anyway. It’s all of Sam: how he laughs, his smiles, the way he moves, light touches.

Like now. Sam has a hand lightly on Bucky’s arm, complaining, “I can’t believe you haven’t had pineapple pizza yet. That’s a freaking crime, it’s delicious.”

“Why would anyone put pineapple on pizza?” 

“Hey, don’t knock it til’ you’ve tried it.” 

“Sure.” Bucky tries his best to look unimpressed and ignore how elation shoots straight into his gut when Sam’s hold lingers. 

He’s been ignoring it for a little while now, how happy Sam makes him without much effort. Inside, Bucky knows what it is, it’s at the tip of his tongue, but he bites it down before he starts thinking dangerous thoughts. It’s almost painful, a twist inside that keeps him awake at night. He tries to rationalize it, convince himself that it’s a small infatuation, but it’s hard to rationalize anything with Sam grinning at him as if he’s a breath of fresh air and it’s hard to ignore what that does to him every time. 

Bucky’s known for awhile now that his feelings are too strong to dismiss. He’s not suppose feel affection this deep when he sees Sam laugh. He isn’t supposed to imagine running his fingers through Sam’s wings, feel the soft feathers, to touch his skin, to press his lips against his. He knows that. He knows what this is.

But he’s not an idiot. And he knows how this will end. 

Bucky already fell once; he’d rather not have the added false hope that he ever stood a chance.

“You’re going to love it,” Sam is saying before he opens the door to the pizza shop (the one he knows he wont be gawked at). And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

He probably will.

–

–

There’s a newly discovered HYDRA base in Idaho. The compound is former SHIELD property.

It’s Bucky and Sam who go check it out because Bucky suspects it’s important and Sam refuses to let him investigate alone (Bucky really doesn’t think much of it). They go during the day to catch dwindling agents by surprise.

On the mission, Sam does reconnaissance to see how many agents are in the vicinity. He’s fast, faster than any muscled man in the sky should be, and he’s moves with the wind like any other bird in the sky can. “I see about… twenty,” Sam says in the comm link. “Wait for me, I’ll go do another swoop.” 

Bucky takes a good look as Sam’s form disappears on the other side of the compound, then scans the ground patrol ahead of him. There’s only six he can see; fortunately for them, Bucky is taking a step back from killing and he only needs quick feet and an even quicker hands to knock them unconsciousness. The HYDRA agents that actually do notice him react too late. 

He hits fast and effectively. The aim with their guns is clumsy and it’s too easy for him to knock it off their hands. Bucky finds a rhythm in the violence; his body remembers breaking necks and cutting the veins through muscle memories. This time, he breaks limbs and dislocate joints (they deserve far worse, but that’s for another day). He leaves behind a trail of bound, unconscious, and broken agents at his feet.

He manages to get outside the building. Takes out two more. Overhead, Sam veers back to him, landing on the soft earth as Bucky handcuffs them.

“Is there a malfunction in the comm link or something?” he asks rhetorically, glaring. His wings curl, but don’t close.

Bucky clicks on his earpiece as if checking. “Not that I know of.” 

“Buck, I said wait until I came to help.” 

“And my plan was better.” 

“Your plan was shit.” 

“It worked.” 

“Yeah? And why is there blood on your clothes?” 

Bucky blinks and looks down to notice the blood stains. It’s dark and wet. 

Sam sighs. “Are you okay?” 

“It’s not mine,” Bucky answers, then curtly changes the subject. “The perimeter?” 

“Cleared. I don’t think there’s anything important here.” His wings relax and folds. Bucky tears his gaze away to look at the complex behind Sam. Just like the intel said, it is humbly small and inconspicuous. Of course, Bucky’s not fool for a minute; HYDRA survives by laying low and hiding under the rock in the grass. 

“No. There is,” Bucky says. He takes out his gun, clicking it off safety. “They’re hiding something.” 

Sam glances at him, his eyes concealed with his eyewear. “Are you sure the blood’s not yours?”

“I think I’d know if it was.” 

“Fine. What’s the plan?” 

Bucky glances at him. “Just follow my lead.”

–

“Your plans are such shit.”

Bucky slouches, arms folded.

“How the hell does anyone get  _stabbed_ and not realize it?” Sam mutters, closing the first aid kit and taking it with him to the pantry. Bucky glowers and wants to retort, but doesn’t. Sam did bring him home to patch him up. There’s no reason to make him more anxious about the wounds than he has to. Rather than make a sarcastic retort, he focuses on a russet and ivory feather beside him on the couch. 

“It wasn’t even worth it! We only found a hard-drive and you almost bled to death,” Sam continues, crossing the threshold.

“It was only eight stabs. Didn’t even feel it. ”

“Your plans are shit.”

Bucky glares at his retreating back into the kitchen. “I had the element of surprise. You would’ve ruined it.”

“Look at all the good that did you.”

He doesn’t bother retorting, more exhausted than he let on.

Bucky glances at the bag of dirtied bandages in a plastic bag by his feet and he knows it’s Sam’s blood in there too. There’s a pang of guilt at the thought. What if he endangered Sam on a whim and no important data is in the hard drive? Sam only came because he didn’t want Bucky to do this alone. 

 _He should have let me_. Scenarios run through his mind, scenarios of blood and bullets and knives and feathers scattered on the cold ground and the guilt turns into fear because why didn’t he just lie and do this himself? The thoughts start polluting his head until he notices someone standing over him.

Sam kneels down on one knee, the edges of his wings pressed to the carpet, studying him. He’s holding two cold bottles of beer in one hand, condensation letting little droplets of water pool over his fingers. Bucky frowns and is about to say,  _‘yeah, I got it’_ , but then Sam shakes his head. 

“Listen, okay? Because I’m getting the feeling you don’t realize how this–” he gestures the beers together although Bucky knows he’s talking about them “–works. If you’re in trouble, I got your back. If I’m in trouble, I know you have mine. That’s how a partnership works. So there’s no need for this tough guy act. Not when we have each other.” He hands Bucky a beer in as a sort of truce. Bucky looks at him, letting the words in, and it’s there  _again,_  that feeling he might stop breathing. He feels his ears flush and he can barely swallow.

He wants to say something worthwhile, anything, but his mind goes blank. How does Sam make it so easy? To string a few words together and make someone feel so… whole. Why can’t do the same for Sam? He nearly sighs as he takes the beer from him.

“Yeah, I got it,” he says, and it’s not as biting as he originally planned for it to be.

“Good since we’re not ordering in.”

“Oh thank god.” 

“Shut up, you like what I order.” 

When Sam does return to the kitchen, Bucky doesn’t bother to open the drink. He watches the warmth of his hand melt the frost on his drink.

–

Bucky sleeps over, staying on what is supposed to be the guest room. At least, it would be if Bucky doesn’t sleep over so many times. He even leaves some of his stuff here, but Sam hasn’t complained yet, so he hasn’t brought them back to his apartment.

He still holds the feather with his flesh hand, his bionic arm tucked under his head. It’s one of those nights when he wishes he has wings too, wings exactly like Sam’s. 

He snorts and flings the feather away.

–

–

In his nine o’clock therapy session, he confides with his therapist because it’s getting worse.

Dr. Quesada watches him pace back and forth in her small office room. She’s silent and observant as he tries his best to explain best on what’s occurred, as if they’re all symptoms of a disease. Long after he’s finished, he’s still pacing and that’s when she decides to speak. 

“When will you tell him?” 

Bucky stops mid stride. “I’m not telling him  _anything_.” 

“II’m not sure what you want to hear, Barnes,” she replies, patient but direct. 

Bucky glowers. “That I’m overthinking it. That I just respect and admire him.” 

“There’s more to it than that. That’s where your situation began.” 

He slumps down on the stiff couch and runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

“I can’t have feelings for him,” he admits, head bowed and staring at the blades of grass on his boots.

“It shouldn’t be possible or you don’t think you should?” 

“Both.”

“Why?” 

He half heartedly glares at her, but she meets his gaze coolly. “You know why,” he mutters, looking away. 

“You’ve made phenomenal steps through your recovery. At this point, guilt is counterproductive,” she replies, not unsympathetically. Then she looks him straight in the eyes. “I’m not going to tell you what to do, but here’s the question you should consider–”

–

_Is it worth losing that friendship?_

He doesn’t want to picture his life without Sam. But if his feelings are a liability? 

Maybe leaving is for the best.

–

–

He gets to watch Sam warm up, flying above the park trees, but not out of Bucky’s line of sight. It’s after their morning jog around the Washington Park and Bucky is sitting on the grass, watching him as Sam soars, veering in an large arch. Sam always does this after a jog, to lightly warm up his wings. A few people look up to stare, some even linger, but they always move on and there’s no warrant for Bucky’s concern. The air is dewy from earlier rain fall and the grass is bristling, shining.  

After, he lands a few ways ahead, Sam joins him on the grass, winded. He smells musky, his shirt damp even though the wind dried most of the sweat on his skin. His right wing brushes on Bucky’s shoulder and Bucky can feel the emitting heat. For an instant, he imagines Sam doing that again only his clothes are absent and they’re in his apartment, on his bed, his wings splayed out just like now.

He clears his throat.

After a stretch of silence, Bucky says, “I’m going to be gone for awhile.”

Sam pauses, clearly surprised, his blue gatorade half way to his lips. Then he narrows his eyes like he can read Bucky’s mind. “Is it about the hard-drive?” 

“My informant has something for me,” Bucky replies. 

“Anyone going with you?”

“It’s better if I do this alone.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Okay, so first you wanna go Rambo on HYDRA and now you’re solo on this too?”

Bucky quirks his lips a little, unscrewing the cap in his water bottle. “You really can’t blame me. Covert isn’t your strongest skill set.”

“Thanks, man. And may I remind you pre-planning isn’t your forté either?” Sam retorts dryly and bumps his shoulder with Bucky’s. “Anyway, when you get back from your one man mission? Swing by my place first.” 

Bucky glances at him, wary. “Are you going to make me eat more takeout?” 

“I’ll stop expanding your culinary tastes if you stop criticizing how I conduct my stealth.” 

“Fine.” He pauses and says out of the blue, “You should add red and white on your uniform.”

Sam raises a brow. “Why would I do that?”

Bucky stands up and peers down at him as if he has breaking news, wiping grass and moist dead leaves off his shorts. “Might as well make the perfect flying bullseye,” he replies and that brings out a laugh from Sam, almost choking on his drink. He doesn’t miss the way Sam’s folded wings jolt, almost as if it wants to open. Bucky feels a rush of exhilaration because  _he’s_ making Sam laugh like that and that’s almost enough to make him laugh along with him. 

Instead he smiles a indiscernible, but victorious smile. 

–

–

The hard drive is useless as it turns out. It contains everything Maria Hill uncovered herself. He doesn’t bother hiding the bitter disappointment as he flings it to the ocean.

But this trip is not completely for nothing. He never really believed in epiphanies until the answer strikes him during his first week in London.

–

He’s at a coffee shop, scanning over a menu for lunch. There’s not a variety of food options he hasn’t already tried and takes note of the ones that intrigue. It’s the desserts that capture his interest.

Cream puffs. Lemon Madeleines. Chocolate Ganache. Éclair cakes. They look delicious. 

He thinks about taking pictures and smirks, inwardly. Sam’s going to call him an ass and then try to look up if any of the dishes are sold in restaurants in the U.S.

And then it dawns on him as he’s about to order every dessert in the menu. The waitress waits for him politely. 

It makes sense. 

He knows it’ll annoy him when he goes to his house. He’ll know his reaction, know exactly what to say, and then tell him the whole trip was a waste of time and maybe they’ll go to a deli for a sandwich. He’ll help Sam look for the dishes.

But that’s just it. 

There’s always a  _they_  when it comes to him and Sam. Ever since Bucky saw Sam expand his wings and fly, he’s always known it. 

He’s in love with Sam. 

He loves every part of him that makes him who he is. He loves his warmth: his touches, his smiles, his empathy, his righteous anger. Even his reliance on take-out and his need to lecture.

And he loves his wings. His dark and gorgeous wings and how it regal it looks against clear skies. How powerful it’s enough to carry two people, but has the efficiency to be swift. 

Leaving won’t change that. His feelings are a liability only because he refuses to entertain the idea Sam will ever feel the same way when it shouldn’t have mattered at all. As long as he gets to be near him? It’s going to be enough.

–

Maybe he’s Icarus, gearing himself to fly too close to the sun. Maybe he’ll fall and drown in the ocean, engulfed by salt water because he ignored his own limitations. 

But that’s just it. 

It’ll be worth getting burned for. Sam’s worth the risk.

Icarus may have been a fool, but no one can say he was a coward.

–

–

He’s back in the States in two in a half weeks.

Instead of going to his own apartment, Bucky does exactly what Sam requests and goes directly to Sam’s. He doesn’t think about his confession because if he has time to, he’s going to lose courage. He stands on Sam’s back patio, a small box in his hand. It’s far pass evening, the lightbulb above him flickering against the darkening sky. 

Sam answers the door, white shirt and in sweatpants no less, and looks more than a little surprised to see him. Bucky is momentarily caught off guard and whatever he is planning to say is almost forgotten. 

Then Sam’s face smoothes over. “Welcome back.”  

“Thanks.” If Bucky was any younger, he may have stuttered. May have. At four years old.

Sam grins and starts to head back in. “Come on in–”

“Actually, do you mind if we talk out here?” Bucky rubs the back of his neck, trying to gather his nerves.    

Sam looks at him with curiosity, but steps outside and closes the door behind him. The patio light is weak, but doesn’t hide Sam’s wings, closed. There’s a short silence.

Sam attempts to break the growing tension. “Wished you called first,” he says with a weak chuckle. “I would have been more…presentable.” 

“You know I don’t care about that.” 

“Yeah. So, what’s up?” 

Bucky takes a deep breath. Ignores his heart’s ferocious beating and his chest constricting. 

“I do have something to say,” he begins carefully. 

“Uh-huh.” 

“It’s important. And I have this, too.” 

Sam eyes the small package Bucky is carrying. “Oh, don’t tell me you got a gift for little ol’ me?” 

“Actually…” 

Sam blinks. Once, twice. Bucky takes it tucked from under his armpit and opens the box’s lid.

“You seriously didn’t have to–” he stops when he sees the contents inside.

French Macarons. One of each bright color and flavor packaged together in the rectangle box. 

Bucky clears his throat. “My trip was a waste of time,” he starts. “But I spent most of that time thinking. Mostly about you –  _us_ –” he sees how Sam’s eyes widen and hastily adds, “and I–I had this idea to buy them because I don’t think you’ve had these before. It’s good. That’s it.” 

Sam’s face is carefully neutral and he’s no longer looking at the cookies, he’s staring at Bucky. There’s a brief moment of silence with their eyes locked and Bucky would rather much face a barrel of a gun. Then Sam says, quietly, “Thank you.” 

“Try them before you thank me.” 

“Can I ask you something?”  

Bucky freezes. Everything he was going to say disappears and his mind goes blank. 

 _Fuck_.

Bucky puts the box in the banister. His hands fall to his sides. “Forget it, forget I said anything.”

Before he can get away, Sam catches his wrist. His touch is light, like always, but it’s also firm this time. “Wait.” 

Sam’s face is still neutral, but his voice is soft. “Hold on. Don’t you want to hear me out first?”  

Bucky tries to turn his head away until Sam cups his cheek and angles his jaw so he has to face him. He closes his eyes, swallows in vain, and then opens them. He can’t hear anything, can’t taste anything but sand in his mouth. But he can feel Sam’s warmth, his callous hand holding him steady, see Sam’s brown orbs, and his bistre wings unfold slightly. 

“These Macarons look delicious, so thank you. But there’s a reason I wanted you to stop by here first.” Sam pauses and actually  _fidgets._  It’s a little jarring because Sam never hesitates to speak his mind.

“I don’t wanna mess up what we have, so if I step out of line, I’ll back off,” Sam says. 

Bucky stills and his body is cold all over again, being submerged in ice that isn’t there. 

Sam leans close and even when Bucky sees what’s about to happen, he doesn’t believe it until Sam’s lips meets his. 

It’s slow, deliberate and, maybe hesitant because when Bucky’s mouth opens slightly in utter shock, Sam doesn’t take advantage. It’s like the kiss is transferring his warmth on him andit’s the best damn thing he’s felt in so long. Bucky just closes his eyes and takes it in. When Sam slowly pulls away, he regrets the loss of contact.  

There’s another silence, thicker this time. Bucky opens his eyes and sees Sam searching, looking for any signs of distress. he’s not really sure what Sam’s looking for and Bucky’s not sure what to do, what to say.

Sam had kissed him.  _Kissed him._  

“Buck?” 

“Oh,” is his reply. 

Sam licks his lips. “Like I said, I’ll back off if–” 

Emotions rush on Bucky (confusion, elation,  _desire_ ) all at once and his acts on it because what are the chances of this happening again? He takes Sam by his waist with his free hand and kisses him before he can finish, more daring than Sam’s attempt. Sam is startled for a second, but returns it immediately and there’s not hesitance this time. It’s less careful and more passionate as Bucky goes as far as he can, to feel his tongue glide past his, teeth and all. His lips move in sync with his and Sam releases his grip on his wrist and puts it on his hip, grounding him. 

Sam is kissing him. There's a steady heat growing in his gut and he can’t think straight (he sure as hell doesn’t want to).

When do they reluctantly part for air, Bucky hears the blood in his ears. And he can’t think of anything to say, still air headed. Sam seems just as blown as he is, except he’s smiling dreamingly and the only thing Bucky can manage is to return a small smile. 

“Wow.” 

“Yeah.” He still has his hand on Sam and Sam refuses to let go of Bucky’s hip. Sam is the one who speaks. 

“So, uh, I had stuff I wanted to say,” he explains, sounding more clear. “But I was gonna ask if you wanted to move in with me.”

It takes a long second for Bucky to figure out what he means. When he does, it’s like everything falls into place. 

“Why?” he asks, because he’s really not an idiot and Sam may change his mind. “I haven’t given you a real reason to trust me.” Or kiss for that matter.

“What are you talking about? You’ve given me every reason to trust you,” Sam says a matter-of-factly. “Every reason to be near you. I was just trying to figure out a way to say so without chasing you away.” 

Bucky can’t answer because there’s stone clogged in his windpipe. He thinks of the first time they met when he was still the nameless Asset. How he broke Sam’s left wing (and did he remember, the sickening snap still in his memory). How he kicked him off the damn SHIELD helipad and let him fall to his death. How a month after he was found by Steve, Sam had kept his distance with his wing still wrapped and healing. It took another month for Sam to even have a conversation with him. It’s so different now, five months later. 

Sam does trust him. 

“Come on, you can’t be that surprised,” Sam says and gingerly leans his forehead against Bucky’s. Bucky can hear the relief in Sam’s voice. “Didn’t you notice how I’m always fishing for excuses to be near you?” 

“I thought it was pity.” 

“God, you are so _thick_.”

Bucky breathes out a weak, shaky chuckle. “Yeah.” 

“I hate to break it to you, but I’m not the angel you make me out to be.” Sam wraps his arms around his waist and gently pulls him against his body. All Bucky can feel is warmth, engulfed in his heat, and his smell. He reaches and runs his hand through Sam’s wings and the feathers are embedded with a tender heat of its own and Sam shudders under his touch. 

“I always wanted to do this,” Bucky says quietly, not wanting to disrupt the moment. “I wanted to tell you how I felt since that first time I watched you fly and I still honestly can’t because whatever I say will never be good enough. I’ve been better at showing anyway, so if I move in, will you let me?” 

There’s a thrill that runs through Bucky’s core with Sam at a loss for words. He tries to suppress a grin, but one comes out anyway because he knows Sam’s silence is not rejection. Sam opens his mouth and softly says, “Damn.” 

“Is that a yes?” 

“That’s a ‘get in my house and bring those Macarons before I drag you in myself’”

Words never sounded so sweet to his ears.


End file.
